


My heart is pouring (I want you to read it)

by Heliotrope_Moon



Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell
Genre: Alt title: 5 poems that Baz doesn't understand and 1 that he does, Bad Poetry, Excessive use of italics, Fluff, M/M, Secret Identity, Simon Snow Loves Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch, Simon is self-aware, Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch Is Gay for Simon Snow, honestly just an excuse to write bad poetry, no beta we die like ebb
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-31
Updated: 2021-02-11
Packaged: 2021-03-18 11:02:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 8,533
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29117202
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Heliotrope_Moon/pseuds/Heliotrope_Moon
Summary: Simon Snow doesn't understand poetry. However, that doesn't let that stop him from writing it.Baz Pitch loves poetry, and that doesn't stop him from criticising bad poetry when he sees it.
Relationships: (Minor) Dev/Niall, Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch/Simon Snow
Comments: 32
Kudos: 103





	1. Fireplace

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! Short first chapter as I'm just getting back into writing full length fics
> 
> This fic was inspired by the fact I write poetry to deal with my emotions when I can't verbalise them

_“Fireplace_

_Exposed brick, open flame,_

_Burning logs, spreading warmth._

_Passionate._

_Terrifying._

_A calm scene,_

_Never shaking in the wind._

_Painted over with yellow_

_Firescreen before the flame_

_Burnt out logs_

_Trapped warmth._

_Passionate but trapped_

_Terrifying and waiting to burst._

_It’s calm is false._

_The wind will unleash_

_A creature, untamable._

_Is the first scene_

_Even real?”_

_Nix_

  
  


**BAZ**

I’m getting tired of these poems.

Some fool decided one day they’d spread their poor poetry across Watford and gather a gaggle of adoring fans through their poor use of conceit. Not to mention that they won’t even reveal their identity. It’s a ridiculous stunt that everyone decided to fall for. Frankly, I would love to say that I couldn’t care less about this, but my frustration at the situation would beg to differ. 

What is so poetic about a fireplace?

_“I think it’s about their artistic side not being appreciated.”_ I heard one girl mutter in elocution.

_“Well,_ I _think it’s about their frustration with life.”_ Another one.

_“It’s obviously about growing up, guys.”_ I think I’m going to scream.

My frustration doesn’t end when lunch rolls around. Dev and Niall have been chattering on about that bloody piece of writing since I saw them this morning. Thankfully, they’ve moved on from the actual text onto theorising who the culprit behind the disgrace to literature is. That part is one I find quite interesting.

“I mean, it’s gotta be a girl, right? No dudes here would risk getting caught writing shit like that,” Niall comments. He does have a point. I would point out that there are a few men here that may possibly be in touch with their emotions but none seem to come to mind. Besides, Dev beats me to my own point.

“Stop being stereotypical. There’s no reason to think a guy wouldn’t write any of these.”

“Dev, mate, I’m just saying most the guys here are emotionally constipated.”

“And what about the few who aren’t?”

“Why do you sound defensive?” Niall smiles as if he’s just cracked the code. Dev rolls his eyes and denies any accusations Niall points his way. It’s a fun scene, but it provokes thoughts in my mind.

No one knows who Nix is. Theories on their identity stretch from members of the football team from teachers. Some people try to claim that I’m Nix, although they are quickly shut down when I tell them I wouldn’t write something nearly as offensive to literature as a whole.

They must have access to a photocopier, or possibly they’re just making effective use of **“control c, control v”**. I’ll take a guess at the latter. In that case, they must be exceptional at spell casting. They also have a vague understanding of poetry, although their use of metre is extremely lacking. So far, that is all we know of Nix, other than someone decided to be almost as pretentious as me with their use of Latin.

Light. It’s a strange name, but given their writings, I don’t question it too much.

Forget that. I’m wasting precious time here.

Simon Snow is as he usually is during this lunch hour. Surrounded by scones, butter, and girls; the scones and butter obviously outnumber the women there. His hands are filled with the sweet bread and his mouth seems to be overflowing with the amount he’s stuffed in there. He’s disgusting, I love it. It’s quite disturbing if I’m entirely honest, just how much I enjoy watching him. Eating, sleeping, living. Watching him live often makes me forget my own twisted fate. He's so alive.

He’s so beautiful; I could write poem after poem about it.

A thought enters my head, but I elect to ignore it when Dev starts kicking my shins.

“What in the everloving fuck do you want?” I snarl. The two of them know I have a tendency to ‘zone out’ and that I do not like to be brought back into the real world. The world where he’s sat so far away and I can’t reach him.

“Chill out, I just wanted to ask who you thought Nix was?” He asks. I take a slow breath before I begin to explain.

According to a few, Nix’s poems tend to be about their emotional state at the time. They’re often about the frustration that one cannot truly express in fear of hurting others. It’s a strange thing to write about, but obviously something the poet struggles with. The most recent poem seems to be exactly about that. A poem about wanting to be your true self but instead, covering up, hence the ‘ _painted over with yellow_ ’ line. Perhaps it’s about their want to be more vulnerable in life; that’s a want I believe everyone should strive for. Then again, that’s quite a hypocritical statement coming from me, isn’t it?

Crowley knows Dev is the face of serenity when Niall isn’t around (Niall causes him too much stress and excitement). He’s almost too perfectly composed in any situation. I wouldn’t doubt it if he found himself frustrated with life, after all, he is a Grimm, which despite being a lower status than my own, is quite a hard title to carry. There is also the issue of the Latin name - I don’t doubt Dev may have picked up a dead language as a hobby, or possibly just thought the name was ‘cool’. The three letters of the name also correlates to his own name, possibly a reflection?

However, Dev is not what I would call in touch with his emotions. To quote Niall, I would have to say he is ‘emotionally constipated’. After all, why else has he not professed his love for our mutual friend? If a poet is truly in touch with their feelings, why not be honest about them?

“I don’t care,” I lie. Dev shrugs it off and starts talking about another one of his insane theories. He’s probably going on about how one of the teachers is Nix and simply wants to connect more to the students. I hate that theory the most.

Truth is, I care desperately about who this mysterious poet is. I would love to give them an earful of complaints.

**SIMON**

I can feel him staring at me, so I shove more food in my mouth hoping to disgust him. I don’t like it when he stares at me; it makes me feel weird. It kind of feels like theres something in my stomach trying to crawl out.

Penny and Agatha are talking about Fireplace; I stuff my face further to avoid talking about it. They keep going on about some literary technique I’ve never even heard of, so I just nod along.

“Of course the use of punctuation in the first stanza is relevant when you consider the enjambment in the second stanza,” Penny points out. Honestly. She goes so deep into these poems trying to figure them out. “The punctuation is used to make you pause and creates a calmer tone to reflect the feeling Nix was trying to create.”

I have no fucking clue what she’s saying.

“I guess, I thought it was kind of another way of expressing their frustration? Like, maybe they’re envious of that calm scene because they want to be like them.” Agatha questions. I wish I could tell her how close she is.

Because the truth is, I’m Nix. I wrote that poem; not because I think I’m great at writing, because I needed to vent. Poems let me express myself and use ridiculous imagery to describe how I feel. I’m shite at explaining what I feel, so using poetry was an exercise I thought might help. The whole ‘Nix’ thing came much later. Truth is one of the poems slipped out my bag in the middle of a lesson and someone found it and spread it across school. After some people said they related to it, I thought why not share some other poems? After a while, I created a fake name to go along with the poems. I take a page, make some replicas, and subtly spread them around the school (it’s not too hard, although I’m often surprised considering my clumsiness leaves something to be desired in terms of stealth.)

I don’t share every poem. Some of them are too explicit (not in that way).

Some of them are about him.

A lot of them are about him.

“Simon? What do you think?” Penny asks, obviously just trying to get me to stop shoving butter in my mouth. I stare at her pretending to chew for a moment trying to come up with a response that won’t get me caught. Agatha’s looking at me now. Quick, quick, _quick._

“Uh, I think they just like fire.” I’m a genius. They start laughing. Good. Humour is a good distraction.

“Speaking of which, who do you guys think Nix is?” Agatha asks. I freeze. _Fucking shit_.

“Bet you it’s Trixie, she’d do anything for attention.”

“I mean, she’s writing under a pseudonym, it’s not really attention.”

“You know what I mean.”

“I think you just have a personal bias, Penny.”

I zone out and leave lunch as soon as its over.

In all honesty, I hate talking about Nix. I always feel like i’m going to give the secret up, especially to Penny. I hate keeping this from her, but do I really want her to know how I’m feeling? Maybe if I was a little bit more mentally stable, I’d be okay with it. But I’m not, and therefore Nix stays a secret.

What would Baz say? I know he’s read them given how he keeps saying he hates them. I feel a little hurt when he says that, but I can’t show it. I mean, its kind of fitting that Baz hates me, even when he doesn’t know its me. That’s just how enemies are, innit?

I think I’d just about die if he knew that I wrote them. I desperately hope that he stopped reading them after the first few. They were all about just my emotional state, a lot of the newer ones however, they’re about him. Especially Fireplace - the entire first part is dedicated to him, or at least how I see him.

_“I don’t see how people could admire such rubbish.”_ he’d said once when in our room. _“It’s trying so hard to be pretentious.”_

_“That’s a lot coming from you.”_

_“Shut it.”_

He’d glared at me with no real heat when I said that. I’m pretty sure it’s the closest I’ve gotten to a non-hostile conversation with him, even if he was attacking my work.

Little did he know I was writing my next poem as we spoke.

I think I might share that one next. Although, it’s a lot. Not in length, but in content. It’s about him again. It’s explicitly about him.

I don’t think I’ll share that one for a while.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


_“My heart is pouring_

_Like a storm in summer.”_


	2. Bones

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry these are all really short, I swear I'm trying.

_ “Bones _

_ I feel you when you’re not there. _

_ When you’re softly sleeping in your bed. _

_ When you’re across the hall from me. _

_ When you’re so far away, I can’t see you. _

_ I feel you when you’re not there. _

_ Have you tricked me in some way? _

_ Taken your control over me _

_ And decided to play with my heart? _

_ This wicked witchcraft has taken over _

_ And given myself to you. _

_ You didn’t have to be so cruel. _

_ I would’ve gone willingly with you. _

_ After all, _

_ I still feel you in my bones.” _

_ Nix _

**BAZ**

I don’t think Snow is listening when I tell him to fuck off.

In all honesty, I thought he’d be off somewhere with Bunce or possibly slaying an innocent dragon during his free time. I never thought he’d choose to spend any free hours he had lay in bed groaning in misery. I’d pity him if I could, but frankly I was planning on finishing off my homework in silence.

I don’t often stare at Snow when he’s awake; when I do he accuses me of thinking up some nefarious plot against him and the Mage. The truth is I’m simply just hopelessly in love with him, but we don’t have to talk about that.

He groans once more into his pillow and I think I’m going to break something - possibly him.

“I’ll ask once more, would you  _ kindly _ fuck off?” I push through my teeth. I don’t want him to actually fuck off, but it’s a more ‘in-character’ way of me telling him to be quiet. He groans louder in spite. That’s it. Forget my plan of dying by his hand - I’m going to throttle him.

“I’m  _ upset _ , I would like to be alone,” he laments. I feel no sympathy for him.

“This is my room as well, Snow. You can go throw your temper tantrum somewhere else.” I wave him off and turn back to my essay.  _ “How far would you agree that-” _

He’s seriously resorted to throwing things? I turn around to look at the item that’s landed slightly to my right. Its a small, crumpled up piece of paper. I unfurl the thing to set my eyes upon what must be the latest Nix poem. This is what he’s upset over? I close my eyes for a moment, trying to gain my composure to that I don’t rip this thing to shreds. I turn harshly towards Snow as I crumple the paper back up.

He’s pouting.

He’s such a child.

“I thought we left throwing things at each other back in fifth year, Snow, honestly.” I throw the poem back at him. He opens it back up himself and looks it over.

“Alright, innit?” He questions. I take a few moments to figure out he’s talking about the poem. Is he seriously trying to make light conversation right now? Well, he’s giving me no material, so I shall choose to engage.

“I haven’t read it,” I admit. I could think of better things to do with my time. Tormenting Snow, dreaming of Snow, my essay, staring at Snow, et cetera.

Snow’s eyes light up with some emotion I don’t bother to register. “Really?”

“Really.”

And the conversation ends there. I don’t reflect on it until later.

By later, I mean mere minutes later.

Why would Snow be so cheerful about me not reading a poem? He already knows I can’t stand that false sophistication that Nix likes to present. I’ve certainly complained about it enough. Honestly, it’s as if everyone in this school has been cast under some enchantment that makes them fall in love with pages of complete and utter horseshit.

“I’m not a big fan of it either,” Snow mutters from his bed, still staring at the poem. “It’s kinda, I don’t know, lacking in content?”

Snow is able to criticise literary texts? Good for him. I ask him to throw the poem back over.

_ Bones _ . How cheerful.

The rest of the poem goes on about some lost love. Someone who fell in love deeply with someone and feels they’ve become out of their reach. Reading over the first stanza I feel some form of deja vu coming over me. The poem reminds me far too much of myself and for a moment I feel disillusioned. I can genuinely relate to a Nix poem - I hate myself.

Snow is staring at me as if waiting for me to give my opinion. I decide to be generous, just this once.

“It’s certainly more straightforward than the rest,” I say. I’m not sure what else I can comment on. Possibly tone?

“Yeah, that’s the problem, innit? It’s missing that, Nix factor.”

“Nix factor?”

“Sorry, that ‘pretentious snobbery’.” He uses air quotes to mock me and gives a big grin afterwards. I feel my face conveys all I need it to. “It’s just kinda boring, I think at least.”

“Whatever gets them away from their tragic attempts at literary brilliance.” I throw the paper in the bin under my desk. I’m not willing to look at it any longer than I have to. And honestly, I would love to return to my essay but Snow decides to speak up once more.

“Do you think it’s kinda sad?”

“Sad? How so?” I know he didn’t mean this one for once, but I feel insulted.

“Loving someone, and not having them love you back.”

“If you find that upsetting Snow then I have some harsh news about reality.” He frowns at me. I wish he wouldn’t. He looks so much better when he’s grinning like an idiot - even his anger is attractive. Crowley, I’m disturbed. “Although im not surprised at your view, after all you’ve had Wellbelove all over you for years now.”

He cocks his head to the side. “Agatha and I broke up months ago?”

I stare blankly at him. “I thought I heard rumours you two were back together?”

He shakes his head, messing up those already messy bronze curls. The Lord tests me every day with the temptation to simply run my hands through them. Luckily for me, I never fail a test.

“Well then, my condolences.” Why am I like this?

I turn back to my essay, hoping that will finally shut him up.

**SIMON**

As usual, I’m at a loss for words.

Baz was sort of polite, in his own Baz-y way.

And now I’m just laying here, watching him furiously scribble at a piece of paper.

His face is pure concentration. Eyes focused, head tilted to the right, and nose scrunched up the tiniest bit. His nose never really sits right on his face, at least, not after I broke it. I kind of like that about him, it reminds me that he isn’t this almighty being sent down to cast judgement on me. It reminds me that he isn’t perfect; I like that.

Because people don’t have to be perfect. Sometimes we get so worked up on trying to be a better person that we never take a moment to be ourselves. No one will ever be perfect, because we all have our red flags and our issues. And that’s okay. Because that's what being human is. It’s fucking up and fixing what we did wrong. But instead of trying to avoid those fuck ups, we should let ourselves make mistakes and learning. No human is perfect, because perfect is an unattainable goal that every person will view differently.

Baz isn’t perfect, and I love that about him. I just wish he’d embrace it.

Though, after saying that I suppose I’m a hypocrite. 

I hated my last poem.  _ Bones _ . What was I thinking? It’s practically a love confession. All that’s missing is a ‘Dear Baz’ at the top. I’m really glad he hadn’t read it at first, but weirdly enough, I’m also kind of upset that he hated it. Well, at least he was honest?

I don’t care what people think about my poems. Again, they’re just a way of venting I guess. However, it’s different with Baz. I mean, half of the things I write are about him. So I guess I’m upset at the fact he doesn’t like the fact I like him? But he doesn’t know I’m the one writing the poems, and he doesn’t know they’re about him.

When did my life get this confusing?

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


_ “My heart is pouring _

_ Like a storm in summer. _

_ Your face is scowling _

_ Like winter’s harsh light.” _


	3. Cup O' Tea

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me: Hmmm, what can today's poem focus on?  
> Cup of tea: exists  
> Me: I'm a genius

_ “Cup o’ Tea _

_ You were meant to be kind to me, _

_ Relax me, _

_ Soothe me when I cannot soothe myself. _

_ Calm me, _

_ Help me to sleep. _

_ Instead, you scald my fingers _

_ And my mouth _

_ Burning my insides _

_ In an ironic twist of fate. _

_ I try to blame you, yet in truth _

_ I am the one at fault here. _

_ I am the one that boiled the water.” _

_ Nix _

**SIMON**

We’re sat on the field when Penny asks me:

“Do you think Agatha is Nix?”

And I start laughing. 

“What?” She asks me incredulously. “I’ve got all the evidence I need.”

“And what evidence is that?” I ask, a giggle threatening to burst out. I love Agatha, honestly, I do, but she wouldn’t be so boring in anything she produced. If Agatha was Nix, her poems would be about the beauty of normality, or maybe something along the lines of an appreciation of urban areas, not moral conflicts.

“First of all, she likes writing, she doesn’t talk about how she feels a lot and maybe poetry is her way of expressing that, plus, she left this on our desk.” She hands me a sheet of paper.  _ Cup O’ Tea _ . Ah.

“Pen, that's the poem that was released today,” I point out, handing it back to her.

“It was?” She questions. “Whoa, Nix is writing pretty fast recently, huh?”

“Yeah, I guess he’s bored.”

I lay down for a moment in the grass, not because I’m tired, but because I kind of like the way it feels on my skin. Listen, I know that’s weird, but what about me is normal? I just lay and watch the clouds pass by in the impossibly bright sky for a moment, marvelling at the fact that I exist in this world; that I can feel the grass, the wind, and the sun on my body. I can sense the shadow Penny is casting on my leg due to the lack of heat I feel there. I can feel my hair brushing against my arms as I rest my head on them. I can hear the birds chirping in the distance and the sound of merwolves growling from the pond that sits beside the mummers and just below my room. I still can’t believe, that in this weird, magical, fantastical world that I exist. I  _ exist _ .

And then my world comes crashing down in an instant.

“He?” Penny asks. Fuck. “Simon, do you know Nix?”

Fuck shit fuck fuck shit crap. “Nah, just an accident.” God fucking damn it.

Penny hums but leaves the conversation there. I try to ignore that it ever happened in hopes that she’ll forget; Penny never forgets.

Instead, she just brings it up at dinner.

I’m halfway through my pile of roast beef when she brings up Nix again, to Agatha this time. I think she’s trying to prove her theory of it being Agatha wrong first before she moves onto my mistake.

Why was I born?

“I think Simon knows Nix,” she states. I think I’m going to cry. “He referred to him as ‘he’ earlier.”

Agatha looks unimpressed. She takes one look at me and turns back to Penny.

“It’s  _ Simon _ , and no offence, but I don’t think he’d be able to keep a secret like that,” Agatha says. It’s harsh but fair given almost everything about me. I’ve almost given away the Nix thing about a million times; I’m really surprised no one has caught on.

At least, no one I know of.

“Although, it is quite strange you get  _ really _ quiet whenever someone brings up Nix,” Agatha observes. I shrug. Half my sentences are shrugs, no one will notice a difference.

“Just not interested is all.”

They look at me skeptically.

I don’t look back at them.

**BAZ**

I come back to the room late that night after feeding. Usually, Snow has passed out when I return having waited up for me for a scrap of physical evidence that I’m a vampire. I don’t discourage him from this one. His sleep deprivation is his own fault.

Except this time, he’s awake. This time, he has a notebook in front of him.

As soon as he spots me in the doorway, he slams it closed and stares at me as if I’d just walked in on him doing something much more scandalous than writing. We both just stare at each other for a moment.

A beat passes.

Another beat passes.

Suddenly, I can’t take the awkwardness anymore and simply move to grab my pyjamas and go to bed. Snow can stare at me all he wishes (though I do wish it was in a different context).

“Do you honestly hate Nix that much?” he asks out of the blue. I almost trip over my own feet in surprise. Almost. A Pitch is nothing if not composed. I’m not entirely sure on how I should respond here. He knows I hate Nix almost as much as I hate him using my hand moisturiser on his face (how he doesn’t break out in pimples I’ll never understand).

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“You already know why.”

“I know the reasons you’ve told me, what about the ones you haven’t?” I swear, if Simon Snow ever dies, it will either be by my hand or the grim reaper’s.

“I hate the way they abuse other people’s limited understanding of poetry and writes the most straightforward poems and they’re confused with complete and utter brilliance. Honestly, the lack of effort offends me.”

“So you’d like them more if they put more effort in?”

Why is he asking this? “Possibly.”

He looks towards his notebook for a moment. What is going on with him?

I try to move again, but he speaks.

“I think the newer poem is about wanting someone who doesn’t want you, y’know?” He says, and I’m taken back by the insight. “And I guess it's about someone who’d react harshly if the poet was open about their feelings, given the references to ‘scalding’.”

“The poet also makes a point of referencing that they, and I quote, ‘boiled the water’ showing that the outlash from the poet’s love interest is not unjustified,” I comment. Snow looks at me with his head slightly cocked to the left. “What? If I’m going to criticise something I need to make sure I understand it first.”

“No, I just,” Snow pauses. “I agree, is all.”

“Well then, if you agree, may I please stop being questioned on irrelevant poets and take a shower?” I ask, trying my best to sneer at him. He gives me a nod and I make my leave quickly into the ensuite.

I hate having civil conversations with Snow, it reminds me just how much I want more from him.

**SIMON**

I wish Baz would talk like that more with me.

No animosity, no threats of a fist to the throat, no fighting.

Just a nice conversation.

I like that better than fighting. It's easier. It's nicer.

It reminds me, that Baz is just like me. Not a vampire, not a monster, not an enemy, not a threat.

Just a boy. A boy like me.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


_ “My heart is pouring _

_ Like a storm in summer. _

_ Your face is scowling _

_ Like winter’s harsh light. _

_ You say you hate my work _

_ Though you list every detail of it.” _


	4. Voice

_ “Voice _

_ The world was so quiet _

_ Twisted whispers of safety so soothing _

_ That your mind doesn’t question _

_ Their sincerity. _

_ I have screamed so loud _

_ Only to be met with silence _

_ As a result of their blind violence. _

_ And the world was so loud. _

_ Then I heard your voice _

_ And it was the ocean after the storm. _

_ It was the rain after the drought. _

_ It was the sun after the blizzard. _

_ I found comfort, even in your insults _

_ Because even when it is used to hurt me _

_ Your voice is the one thing _

_ That I can truly depend on to be there.” _

_ Nix _

**BAZ**

“Simon Snow knows who Nix is.” Dev declares as we’re walking down the hallway. I almost trip over my feet. Almost.

“And how did you come to that conclusion?” I ask.

“It’s the rumour thats been going around.” Dev looks away. “Someone started it after supposedly hearing it from Bunce herself.”

“You know I’m not in the business of rumours.” Especially not after the rumours of Snow and Wellbelove being together once again.

“Not even about Snow?” Dev grins and elbows me gently. I don’t give him the satisfaction of a reaction.

Dev is mildly aware of my affections for a certain chosen one. Luckily for me, he is fond enough of me that he chooses not to give away my secret when it could easily destroy my entire reputation. Unluckily for me, Dev is a bastard.

His irritating grin sickens me to no end.

Thank Crowley he and I don’t share our first class on the day.

Instead I share it with Snow.

Pitches don’t cry; I may be the first.

It all passes much too fast in my opinion, and while I do manage to make my notes effectively (I will never stumble in my academic abilities) I do feel as though my mind has been dulled somewhat. It’s probably the lack of sleep from last night.

I was thinking back on the discussion Snow and I had.  _ “Do you honestly hate Nix that much?”  _ he had asked. It didn’t make much sense at the time, but if the rumours are true, then I believe it would. After all, Snow is a beast, but a loyal one at that. I wouldn’t be surprised if he was more offended that I hated one of his friends rather than him.

He seems fidgety at the moment, as if he cannot for the life of him sit still. In all honesty, I don’t believe he can based on his leg looking as if it’s about to start running all by itself. I see Wellbelove reach over to him and lay a hand on his arm. It seemingly comforts him enough.

I don’t feel jealous of the closeness they share. How could I? It’s not as if Snow is mine. Envious is a more accurate term. While I am aware this feeling is one of the seven deadly sins, I can’t find it in myself to care enough.

First lesson ends soon enough, and while I’m packing away I notice a sheet of paper fall out of Snow’s pocket onto the floor. I watch as he walks away and pick up the paper as I’m leaving the room. It’s folded far too neatly to not be important, so in a moment of weakness, I open it.

I immediately regret it because it’s nothing more than another Nix poem. I don’t recognise this one, so it must be the new one.

I don’t think about it until lunch. Im staring at Snow while Dev and Niall ‘subtly’ flirt with eachother until I remember the sheet of paper in my pocket.

Just this once, I’ll be the one to initiate the Nix conversation. 

I slip the paper out of my pocket and slide it across the table towards the two of them. They both go silent.

“I assume you two have already seen this?” I ask. Though I’m confused by their own confused faces. They seem to skim-read it and look up at me. What?

“Baz,” Niall sounds exasperated. What is happening? “Are you Nix?”

“Of course not!” I shout. I’m a little offended at the assumption. “Why would you even think that?”

“You have an unreleased Nix poem!” Dev shouts. I’d be scared that someone would overhear him, but not enough people tend to care about us. It’s a pity really.

“It’s not unreleased! I found it in-” I freeze. I turn my eyes towards Snow’s table and cast my eyes on them. I cannot believe that I’m staring at Snow’s ex instead of that glorious nightmare. When she reached to comfort him, she must’ve slipped it into his pocket.

I take the poem and read over it again. It’s obviously a love poem. A twisted love poem, but a love poem none the less. And the harsh realisation washes over me in a dark cloud. Each of Nix’s poems have been about someone longing for a lost love, and they have been for a while now.

_ “Agatha and I broke up months ago?” _ Snow had said it himself. Wellbelove had lost his love for good. Nix has only been around for a few months or so. It would make sense for Wellbelove to write something so pretentious given her own upbringing (it is not dissimilar to my own). She must be longing for Snow’s affections; I don’t blame her, I would be too.

Nix is Wellbelove’s attempt at getting back together with Snow.

I cannot let that happen.

**SIMON**

Shit, shit, shit, fuck, shit, fucking shit.

I lost it.

I lost my next poem.

I’m going to smash something.

I’ve completely torn the room apart three times looking for it again. If Baz found it-

No need for thinking of worse case scenarios. Just find the poem, it couldn’t have gotten far. I only slipped it in my pocket this morning (I don’t like leaving them in the room where Baz could find them). I can’t think where it could’ve been. At this point, it could be anywhere on Watford’s campus. What if someone found it?

If someone found it, I may have been nearby; given the newfound rumours that I know who Nix is this will do nothing but add fuel to the fire. If people start investigating that rumour, they might find out that it’s actually me who wrote all of those poems, and Baz is so smart he’d instantly figure out they’re all about him and-

Stop.

Breathe.

In.

Out.

It’s fine.

You are fine.

After putting the room back together once more, I simply sit and lay down on my bed. There’s no point in worrying about the inevitable. While it may be terrifying to think about, it’s going to happen anyway, and why should you fear what was always meant to happen?

Baz walks into the room, and my heart rate instantly increase (this time out of anxiety). His face is adorned with his usual scowl, but his eyebrows sit lower than they normally do. I think i’m in trouble when his eyes land on me.

Instead, he throws a sheet of paper at me as he goes to sit at his desk. I open it.

_ Fuck. _

“Baz I-”

“It fell out of your pocket after first lesson,” he explains. I wince at the harsh tone, only because he isn’t looking at me. I don’t like it when he does that.

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine.”

I pause, looking down at the poem. It’s so fucking obvious and of course he knows. How could he not?

“Did you show anyone else?” I want to keep some dignity. Then he turns to me, his face seemingly puzzled.

“Why would I show off Wellbelove’s poor attempts at flirting?”

What.

“Honestly, its like you think I care about your relationship.” He turns back to his desk, and I don’t think I’ve ever felt more grateful. But now…

“You’re not going to tell anyone that Agatha’s Nix?” I ask, because he has the power to do so right now. He chuckles.

“Again, I don’t care, Snow.”

“But, you hate Nix?”

“I do. However, Wellbelove is tolerable, even when she is being a doting fool.”

“You really think that she likes me?” I ask. The whole situation is absurd, and I’m expecting some snark from Baz just to make everything about this feel somewhat right. What I’m not expecting is what Baz actually says next.

“Why wouldn’t she?”

And it sounds almost sad.

I don’t think about it until I open my notebook.

  
  
  
  


_ “My heart is pouring _

_ Like a storm in summer. _

_ Your face is scowling _

_ Like winter’s harsh light. _

_ You say you hate my work _

_ Though you list every detail of it. _

_ I don’t think you hate me _

_ I think you want to hate me.” _


	5. Monster

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poorly written, short, but hey let's go out with a bang

_ “Monster _

_ I always thought you were a monster. _

_ The creature in the closet, _

_ The beast under the bed, _

_ The demon in the dark. _

_ A vampire, a parasite. _

_ I guess I was blind. _

_ You’re nothing like that. _

_ You’re just a kid, like me. _

_ You’re just a person, like me. _

_ You’re just a boy, like me. _

_ I always thought you were a monster. _

_ Truth is, it was me. _

_ Because I choose to see you that way, _

_ Because I can’t bear to see you how I really do.” _

_ Nix _

**BAZ**

I haven’t had a moment’s peace since nine this morning.

It truly is a miracle that composure is one of my greatest strengths.

“ _ You know I can keep any secret, Baz. _ ” A girl whispered in one of my classes. “Any  _ secret _ .”

In another class, a boy slipped me a note asking me to help ‘hone his craft’.

That has been my entire day. So, I elect to spend my one free lesson on the football field. Luckily, no one is here; it’s pure bliss. I though on going to the catacombs but I don’t feel like crying so early on today.

Everyone has been freaking out just because Nix revealed they were a boy. Therefore, they all assume that it’s the one person who openly criticises him. Never before have I witnessed such far leaping logic.

So Nix isn’t Wellbelove. That is peculiar. I suppose that I was wrong on that point. However, it does raise the question of how an unreleased Nix poem got into Snow’s pocket. I know Snow doesn’t tend to have friendly companions: it’s sad really, a side-effect of being the Chosen One. No one wants to end up being a dragon’s snack just because they smiled at someone in their class.

It may be Gareth. He doesn’t seem so phased by Snow’s tragic fate. Then again, he uses a magickal belt buckle, so for the time being, I’m going to ignore his existence.

Rhys may be a suitable option. Sadly, I don’t know too much about him to comment on the possibility of him being Nix.

Could Niall be a possibility? No. Absolutely not. Out of the question.

I look down at the poem in my hand. Monster? Honestly, who would come up with this stuff?

_ “Yeah, that’s the problem, innit? It’s missing that, Nix factor.” _

_ “Do you honestly hate Nix that much?” _

_ “I think the newer poem is about wanting someone who doesn’t want you, y’know?” _

_ “Simon Snow knows who Nix is.” _

_ Nix _

Crowley. This must be the worst timeline possible. My idiot roommate decided to write poetry, and then not listen to any of my advice on how to write a good poem.

**SIMON**

For once, today has been quiet.

No Humdrum attacks, no weird occurrences, and no Baz. Then again, that’s a little too unusual for the average day, so something else must be up.

Was it the poem? Was it too obvious? Is that why I haven’t seen Baz since this morning?

Crowley, he knows. Everyone knows and they’re all avoiding me. Penny, Agatha, everyone. Is that why Dev keeps giving me that knowing look?

Well, it’s not like Penny and Agatha can avoid me at lunch. However, as soon as they sit down they’re completely silent. Therefore, my brain decides that they both know and hate me, or are at least weirded out by it. It’s why Penny is staring so intently at her book and why Agatha is eating so fast. She is eating fast, isn’t she?

This isn’t a problem I have normally, but my appetite has suddenly decreased. Penny notices.

“Simon are you-”

“Do you guys hate me?” I ask because I can’t help myself. Agatha stops eating and stares at me.

“Where did that come from?”

“You guys are just being really quiet and I don’t know I guess I’m just really weirded out because of everything that’s going on and-”

“You’re weirded out by the Baz thing?” Agatha asks and keeps eating. “I’m surprised you didn’t notice given the fact you pretty much stalk him.”

“What Baz thing?”

“The fact that Baz is Nix,” Penny states as if it’s entirely obvious.

“Oh right yeah, that thing.” I try to laugh it off. I think Penny is going to question me on that so I have to make up a quick excuse and leave. I can’t be here. They all think Baz is Nix? I suppose he is the most likely to write poetry out of all the other guys on campus. Other than me, who actually does it.

I’ll be honest, if I wasn’t Nix, I would completely believe that it was Baz.

I’m just walking around campus to clear my head. Because they all think it’s Baz and people have probably been harassing him and it’s all my fault and-

Stop.

Breathe.

In.

Out.

It’s fine.

You are fine.

Whatever has happened is already in the past. Whatever comes now, is going to happen.

I somehow ended up in the room. Our room. The room that Baz is currently sat in on the bed holding the poem.

Fuck the breathing exercises. Anxiety may be a bitch but reality is so much worse.

Baz looks up at me (that’s a first). I close the door and just stand there. He knows. He has to.  _ He knows they’re about him _ .

“Snow, we should talk,” he says, sternly. I hate the look on his face. It’s so serious. It’s so sexy and he needs to stop.

“We should.” I don’t want to talk. I really don’t want to talk about any of this at all.

“Snow-”

“I’m sorry,” I rush out. I don’t want him to be weird about this.  _ Please don’t be weird about this _ . He raises an eyebrow at me. Fuck, he’s being weird about it. Can he just hit me already?

“It’s fine,” he pauses between his words. “I know you have trouble listening to any criticism so I’m not surprised that you haven’t even attempted to change your style.”

“Wait, what?” I ask. What is he on about? Can he just get to the part where he hates me even more and wants to smash my face in?

“Your writing style? Snow, you’ve heard my critiques since day one and you haven’t even considered any of them.” Baz stands up and crosses his arms. “I understand we’re enemies however the literature is taking the fight a little far.”

Right, of course. That’s all he cares about. He doesn’t even know about the fact they’re about him. That’s great. It’s perfect. It’s literally all that I wanted. So why am I so upset about it?

“I’m willing to take you through basic literary techniques-” I can’t listen to him talk.

“They’re about you!”

Baz’s face is so perfectly both confused and annoyed.

  
  
  
  


_ “My heart is pouring _

_ Like a storm in summer. _

_ Your face is scowling _

_ Like winter’s harsh light. _

_ You say you hate my work _

_ Though you list every detail of it. _

_ I don’t think you hate me _

_ I think you want to hate me. _

_ Because you can’t handle any other truth _

_ And this is hurting you.” _


	6. Nix

**BAZ**

The catacombs must be the quietest place on campus, that is of course if you ignore the mild squeaking of rats now and again. Although, it has been a lot quieter these past few days due to my excessive hunting; that’s what happens when an invasive species comes into your habitat. I suppose there’s plenty of animals in the wavering wood I could attack; I am more likely to be spotted there considering the sheer amount of illicit activities I have had the misfortune of witnessing. In all honesty, I’m quite surprised I’ve never caught Snow and Wellbelove there together.

At least, I was surprised.

_ “They’re about you!” _

Never mind that.

I wonder if I missed a few of my classes if anything would be done. It’s not as if the Mage would care, but it would give him a good reason to throw me out even if my grades didn’t suffer (they wouldn’t). Dev has been kind enough to drop off my homework (my teachers believe that I’m simply ill in my room). He doesn’t like to talk much about all of this; I’m glad because I’m not in the mood to explain it.

_ “They’re about you!” _

I sincerely hope Mordelia is alright at home. She’s maturing faster and faster each time I leave home. Last year I was fearful that she may become smarter than myself once she reaches my age. She certainly wouldn’t have any trouble given the rate she devours literature.

_ “They’re about you!” _

I think the oxygen levels must be low down here. Then again, I need not worry considering my situation. I suppose being a monster has its benefits.

_ “They’re about you!” _

That’s it. I’m going insane down here.

I haven’t spoken to Snow in a week, not since the little incident in our room. He told me the truth about the origins of his poetry, and I simply walked out. I didn’t say anything because I couldn’t comprehend it. Snow had given me his own interpretations of his own poetry and called them love poems himself, and then he has the audacity to claim he made them about me. Snow wrote poems about me.

Simon Snow wrote love poetry about me.

I don’t want to think about what that means.

What does it mean exactly? Does it mean that he’s in love with me? I’m not sure. I didn’t know he had an interest in men until he revealed that to me. How sure am I that they actually are love poems and not poems of pure and utter resentment disguised as love poems? I need to check.

So here’s the thing. I am a Pitch, and am prepared for every situation, therefore, there is a hidden stack of every single Nix poem that has been annotated with every single one of my criticisms between two bricks. So I lift one of the heavy bricks to reveal the poems which are covered to the brim in red pen.

I guess it’s time to analyse.

* * *

I make my first return to the room. It’s been a week since I saw Simon Snow and I’m not entirely sure that I’m ready to see him again. I have to see him again. I want to see him again. He has tried to corner me, but simply walking as if he isn’t there seems to be an effective way to get rid of him. I know Bunce has tried to stop him - she obviously isn’t aware of what has occurred between us given the looks she’s thrown my way. They’re the same as usual.

I don’t want to see him. I desperately want to see him.

Because I know now.

The door opens.

I can’t tell if my heart stopped or started beating again.

**SIMON**

Today has been complete and utter shit.

I haven’t been able to speak to Baz in a week. People keep asking me what happened to my ‘poet roommate’. Penny and Agatha keep giving me concerned looks because I look like I got dragged backwards out of hell.

All I want to do is take a nap when I get into the room. Instead, Baz is here.

Oh shit, Baz is here.

And he’s holding a stack of paper? He holds it out to me.

“This is every edit I’ve ever suggested to you on your poetry,” he states. What the fuck? I feel my hands shape themselves into fists as the smell of smoke fills this room.

“This is where you’ve been the whole time? Criticising everything I’ve ever done?” I want to hit him. No, I don’t. I really don’t. I wish I did.

“No,” he says simply. “I had these ready.”

He moves and places the stack of paper on my desk and crosses his arms.

I don’t know what to do here.

I haven’t seen him in so long. Too long.

Now he’s here. He’s here in front of me.

Why isn’t he saying anything? Should I say something?

“Baz-”

“It’s dangerous,” he states. “It would involve a lot of politics and possibly would start another war.”

“What?” He looks at me as if I’m being an idiot. I probably am in all honesty.

“You know what I’m talking about.”

“I really don’t.”

He looks at me. Then he looks at the poems, then back at me.

I can’t stop looking at him.

“You know the worst things about me, yet somehow you managed to write these about me.”

“You hate my poetry.”

“I did,” he admits, looking down. “I didn’t exactly appreciate the bluntness of them, but I suppose there is some quality to more straightforward writings.”

It looks as if it’s painful for him to say this, I want to laugh a little.

“It certainly helped me figure out your.” He coughs. “Affections.”

Oh no. “Baz I-”

“It’s too dangerous. You know that I’m not exactly the best person to be around.”

“‘Cause you’re a posh prat?” I joke. Then I manage to make eye contact for a few seconds. “Sorry.”

“I’m your enemy, Snow.”

“You don’t have to be.”

“We can’t just end a war because you’ve developed some fleeting crush on me.”

“Why not?”

Baz is confused. I’d rather he be confused than angry. I’m starting to think that he isn’t actually mad at the fact that I like him, and that  _ he _ might like  _ me _ . It’s an intoxicating thought.

He starts rambling on about magickal politics and the war and every impediment that stands in our way. I really should focus on it; instead, I’m focused on the way his hair moves as he argues and the sad look in his eyes. Baz doesn’t deserve to be sad.

I stop thinking.

What’s the point in letting things stop us?

Baz doesn’t deserve to be sad. So I move before he can stop me.

I kiss him.

He doesn’t stop me. So I keep kissing him.

He catches up eventually. I don’t think he’s done this before. That’s fine, I’ll teach him.

His mouth is a little colder than mine. Is it because he’s a boy? Or because he’s a vampire? I don’t care, it’s nice actually, plus he’s warming up slowly.

It’s so so nice to kiss Baz.

* * *

I end up laying in my bed next to him later. We’re not doing anything. We’re just kinda lay together, lazily making out when we feel like it. Sometimes I move my hand up and down his stomach - he really likes that.

Baz looks at me for a moment curiously. I smile at him.

“What’re you thinkin’ about?” I ask, and he smiles back at me, gently.

“I’m trying to figure out where you got the name Nix from. Why would you name yourself ‘light’ in Latin?”

I laugh. “I found it in some old book I was reading, thought it sounded cool.”

Baz grins and leans forward to kiss me. I kiss him back. I like that part.

“Hey, Baz?”

“Yeah?”

“Nix also means Snow in Latin.”

I’ve never heard someone curse louder in my life.

  
  


_ “My heart is pouring _

_ Like a storm in summer. _

_ Your face is scowling _

_ Like winter’s harsh light. _

_ You say you hate my work _

_ Though you list every detail of it. _

_ I don’t think you hate me _

_ I think you want to hate me. _

_ Because you can’t handle any other truth _

_ And this is hurting you. _

_ My heart is pouring (I want you to read it). _

_ Like a lover’s affections (I think you need it).” _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading <3


End file.
